


She Lit a Fire

by Kit_Kat21



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dance, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Photographer, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Jon Snow is Not a Targaryen, Jon and the Starks Are Not Related, Photography
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-21
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2019-11-27 09:17:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18192671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kit_Kat21/pseuds/Kit_Kat21
Summary: She had never asked a man out to anything resembling a date – was that what she was doing now with Jon Snow? – but she was a Stark and her family were made of nothing, but brave people and Sansa liked to think she could be brave, too. Arya, her younger sister, had been the one to ask her now-husband Gendry to marry her so certainly, Sansa thought, she could manage to ask a man to go to the museum café with her.





	1. J.S.

…

 

**One.**

 

Sansa Stark didn’t mean to frown. Absolutely everyone had a right to come into this gallery and look at the photographs. She had spent the past hour doing just that. But there was one photograph left that she wanted to look at, but that man had been sitting on the bench in front of it for the entire time Sansa had been in here and he was still there.

 

This last photograph was the star of the exhibit; the photograph used in all of the advertisements and it was rather famous on its own. It had been making the rounds to all of the museums in Westeros and now, it was Winterfell’s turn. It had drawn crowds already, but Sansa had let the initial excitement of its arrival die down before she went to the museum herself and paid the special admission for this special exhibit. And when she had first stepped into the gallery that morning, she saw that her instincts had been correct because it was just her and one other man.

 

But now, this one other man wasn’t moving and Sansa frowned to herself, trying to decide what to do.

 

She looked to the photograph on the wall. It was large enough for two people, at the same time, to look at. She would just stand a bit more off to the side so she wasn’t in his way even though _he_ was being the rude one and hogging this photograph all to himself as if he owned it.

 

Sansa walked closer to it, standing to the side and not directly in front of it like she wanted to.

 

_Lannister Apartment Building IV_

_J. Snow_

The small plaque to the side of the photograph stated the information that Sansa already knew. Everyone who knew of this exhibit probably knew that information. She gazed upwards.

 

It had been a magnificent building years ago. Built strongly in all brick and mortar, the small lion statues placed on each roof corner as if watching over and protecting all those who lived inside.

 

Now though, after years of abandonment, nature was taking it back. Trees had found their way to grow inside along with creeping vines. And that wasn’t what people had done to the building as well. A chain link fence had been put up around the perimeter, but if anything, that only seemed to encourage some to climb over it. Spray painted words and graffiti art decorated walls inside and it seemed as if every window in the entire building had been broken by one thing or another. And the statues on the roof, some had fallen, crashing down to the ground, their broken concrete bodies in pieces still splayed out and some of the statues had disappeared altogether. A few still remained.

 

Sansa looked at the photograph – which was really different photographs all merged into one collage, telling the story of the building’s fate. Something about it – seeing it in person and not just in a magazine or on a website – made her shiver and yet, she couldn’t look away from it.

 

It was so beautiful in its decay.

 

“You can sit if you’d like.”

 

The voice was so sudden and the gallery was silent and it admittedly made Sansa jump a bit. She spun around to see that it was the man on the bench who had spoken; not that it would have been anyone else. Sansa saw that he had moved himself to one end of the bench, leaving the rest of it open.

 

He stared at her and Sansa found herself staring at him in return. He was a very handsome man. She noticed that about him right away and she was almost surprised because he didn’t look at all like her past boyfriends. This man was definitely _Northern_ with his dark curly, slightly long, hair and his grey eyes. He was also wearing all black: black dress pants, a black pea coat and with it open, she saw the black sweater underneath. His socks and dress shoes, with no surprise, were also black.

 

He had been staring at her, too, but then he shook his head; as if shaking himself out of it. “Not that I own the bench and you need my permission to sit. I just… I _was_ hogging it a bit.”

 

Sansa smiled faintly at the man. “Thank you.”

 

She came to sit down on the bench, catching the faintest whiff of pine coming from the man, and she returned to looking at the photograph. Now that she was a bit more far away from it, she was able to take in the entire thing at once without being so close to it and having to crane her head upwards.

 

“Beautiful,” she thought she said softly, but the man next to her seemed to shift in his seat when she said it. “I wonder what happened to J.S.,” Sansa then said before she even quite registered in her mind that she had spoken that out loud.

 

The man turned his head to her – she could see him do so from the corner of her eye – but Sansa kept looking to the photographs, one in particular of one of the empty apartments, the paint all, but completely peeled off and graffiti on the walls. Leaves had blown in through the broken windows. And inside the closet of one of the bedrooms, someone had written their initials – J.S. – on the inside wall in a black permanent marker that was still visible.

 

“His mom worked hard and he got himself a paper route to help and they saved as much money as they could and eventually, they were able to move out of the Lannister Apartments and get their own little house,” the man said and as he spoke, Sansa slowly turned her head to look at him again.

 

“J.S.?” She asked and for some reason, she felt the breath beginning to stall in her lungs.

 

He gave her the slightest smile; just a twitch of his lips, really.

 

“No wonder you were hogging the bench,” Sansa then said and this time, his smile was more obvious. “Is it sad to see it look like this now?”

 

His response was a shrug and he glanced to the photograph before to her once again. “It was just a place.”

 

Sansa didn’t know this man from any other stranger, but she thought that perhaps, his words weren’t the whole truth on the matter though it was nothing close to being her business.

 

“Where is everyone now? Do you know?” Sansa couldn’t help, but ask.

 

“Scattered to the winds, I would assume. Isn’t that what happens when someone’s home is condemned and they _have_ to leave? They go off and find another home.”

 

Sansa wouldn’t know anything about that. She was from Winterfell – born and raised – and she was lucky to have loving parents who were always able to provide for her and her siblings, giving them a good home and all they could want.

 

The Lannister family – one of the oldest families in Westeros – owned real estate everywhere. It was how they earned their fortune – until an investigative journalist exposed the family for what they truly were. Slum lords leaving their buildings – and the people who lived there – in squalor. All of the apartments had been condemned and had to be shut down; the damage too much and the expenses too high to try and make them good and properly livable again.

 

“See that?” He pointed to the photograph and Sansa noticed that he moved a little closer to her on the bench. She found herself not minding though and she wondered if he even realized that he had done it.

 

She looked to where he was pointing. It was of someone’s apartment wall and it took her a moment to be able to recognize what she was looking at, so much decay and neglect as well as Mother Nature blowing in through the hole in the roof having ruined everything.

 

It was a poster, still in its frame, still hanging on the wall. Once Sansa could see what it was, she smiled. It was a movie poster of Dorothy with Toto. _There’s no place like home_ printed on the bottom.

 

Sansa smiled at the words and turned her head to look at the man. J.S.

 

J.S….

 

“J. Snow?” She wondered out loud, almost in a whisper as if afraid to ask the question any louder than that.

 

“Jon,” the man said with the slightest nod and Sansa actually audibly gasped.

 

Jon Snow. _The_ Jon Snow. One of the most well-known photographers in all of Westeros; who’s current photo exhibit on abandoned buildings had been traveling around to everywhere, receiving rave reviews from critics and visitors alike. His previous exhibit – photos of the tribes of nomadic people who still lived North of the Wall had been his debut in the art world and fame for him had followed quickly.

 

It wasn’t as if Sansa followed the art world closely; or, more accurately, at all. She knew nothing of the man sitting next to her except that she loved his photographs and had been looking forward to coming to this exhibit as soon as the dates for it were released from the museum.

 

“What are you doing here?” Sansa asked him, almost in a whisper.

 

The question made him give her that barely-there smile again. “I didn’t think anyone else would be here at this hour, to be honest.”

 

That was true. It was the reason she had come at this time, too. A random Tuesday at nine o’clock, the instant the museum and this exhibit opened.

 

Sansa wasn’t sure why, but his answer made her cheeks pink. And the problem with having such pale skin, someone would be able to see her blush from a mile away; a man sitting next to her not able to miss it unless he was blind and considering his profession, Sansa knew that he probably didn’t have anything wrong with his eyes.

 

“I would think you already knew what these photographs looked like,” Sansa replied and found herself smiling at him.

 

He really was a handsome man, but she found that she was glad she had initially thought that of him _before_ she had any idea who he was. Not that that would ever matter. She knew that once she left the gallery, she would never see him again and this would be nothing more than a good story to tell her family and friends.

 

Jon didn’t respond to that; just kept that small smile trained on her. Sansa had to wonder what he was thinking. His grey eyes were guarded, making it impossible for her to even begin to guess.

 

Her smile faded a bit with her next words. “I’m sorry I said they were beautiful.”

 

She couldn’t even begin to imagine how it would be, growing up and living in such an environment.

 

Jon Snow, though, shrugged. “I took the pictures so everyone could see them in a different way. How _they_ wanted to see them. I agree with you though. I think they’re beautiful, too.”

 

This time, both shared a smile and Sansa felt a tightness in her chest; like she had in her lungs when she first began to solve the puzzle of who this man sitting next to her was. There was something about him; something that was so obvious to her and she wondered if everyone else saw the same thing whenever they looked at him. Jon Snow was as beautiful and as haunting as his photographs.

 

The thought was silly to her – he was a complete stranger – and yet, she didn’t doubt that it was true.

 

“I know it’s still very early, but the museum café makes a delicious chocolate cake. Would you… would you like to join me for a piece?” Sansa bravely asked.

 

She had never asked a man out to anything resembling a date – was that what she was doing now with Jon Snow? – but she was a Stark and her family were made of nothing, but brave people and Sansa liked to think she could be brave, too. Arya, her younger sister, had been the one to ask her now-husband Gendry to marry her so certainly, Sansa thought, she could manage to ask a man to go to the museum café with her.

 

Still though, she felt a nervous fluttering in her stomach as she waited for Jon’s answer.

 

He opened his mouth, but then paused and she saw something pass over his face that he wasn’t able to shield in time. Before he could even give her answer, Sansa already knew she wouldn’t like it.

 

“I’m sorry,” he began to say with a shake of his head.

 

“That’s alright,” Sansa rushed to interrupt, not wanting to hear the excuse he was going to give her. She somehow knew the reason he couldn’t come wouldn’t be a truthful one. She got to her feet and Jon hurried to stand as well. He opened his mouth to speak again, but again, Sansa didn’t give him a chance to. “It was very nice to meet you, Jon Snow. I love your work.”

 

Sansa held out her hand and Jon looked down to it for a moment before he lifted his eyes to her face again and his hand clasped hers. She was startled at how warm his hand felt.

 

A moment later, she was able to leave the exhibit, managing to give him one more smile and walk out at normal pace despite feeling the back of her neck flush with embarrassment and a desire in her to get away as fast as humanely possible. Was that how men felt after they asked a woman out? It was amazing anyone asked anyone out at all. Sansa had already decided she was never going to do it again; especially if the end result was blatant rejection.

 

After she was out of the museum entirely and crossing the lot to the space where she parked her car, it occurred to her that she had never given Jon Snow her name and he had never asked for it and again, she couldn’t help, but feel disappointment; as if she had expected to ever see Jon Snow again or that he would ever think of her again now that their random shared moment in their lives together was gone; as if he would track her down so they could get pieces of chocolate cake together.

 

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new random idea leads to a new random story. Thank you for reading!


	2. Fortune Cookie Advice

…

 

**Two.**

“Snow, I want you to tell me what’s in your pocket,” his publicist said the instant Jon Snow stepped into the office. Jon didn’t have to look though; already knowing what Jaime was referring to.

 

“A cell phone,” Jon answered him, almost dryly, as he sat himself down on the sofa against one of the walls.

 

“A cell phone,” Jaime echoed while nodding his head, turning his chair to keep looking at Jon. “And why do you have a cell phone?”

 

Jon had picked up a random magazine from the table in front of him and was flipping through it now, not even lifting his eyes as he spoke. “So you can keep tabs on me.”

 

“Exactly,” Jaime confirmed.

 

Jon would have smiled at that; if he had been in the mood, but this early afternoon, he wasn’t.

 

He should have asked her for her name.

 

Why the hell didn’t he ask her for her name? They had been sitting there for more than enough time for him to get the question out. There wasn’t an excuse for letting her walk away without at least knowing her name.

 

He wasn’t even going to think on why he hadn’t gone to get a slice of chocolate cake with her. Yes, he had an appointment with Jaime, but it, by far, wouldn’t be the first time he had been late to a meeting with Jaime and he loved chocolate cake. Not to mention that the woman in the museum was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen; and she had been sitting right next to him, talking with him.

 

No. It was best if he didn’t dwell on the chocolate cake refusal and instead, beat himself solely for not stopping to ask her for her name before she had left.

 

Jon knew that he would probably never see her again. Things like that just didn’t happen twice in life – meeting a beautiful woman by random at a museum when it was just the two of them, and sharing a bench with her, able to talk with her – no matter how brief that talking had been. He had had his shot and he blew it and he had seen the embarrassment flushing her cheeks and the disappointment in her eyes. Jon had a feeling that even if he _did_ see her again, she wouldn’t necessarily want to see him.

 

“Snow!” Jaime suddenly barked his name and Jon snapped his head up to look to the other man. By Jaime’s frown and then heavy sigh, it was obvious that Jaime had been talking to him and Jon hadn’t heard a word.

 

Many thought it was surprising – among other words – that Jon Snow would have Jaime Lannister as his publicist. After all, Jaime was a Lannister and Jon supposed that he hadn’t made his feelings towards the family any kind of secret; especially since his second photo collection was all about the Lannister family and their buildings in which they had allowed their tenants to live in before losing everything. The abandoned and derelict buildings were a direct representation of the once-great Lannister family.

 

But Jaime wasn’t like the rest of his family. For one thing – for one _big_ thing – Jaime had stood in front of dozens cameras and reporters and made a sincere public apology to every single tenant the Lannister Buildings had ever had. And for another, it seemed as if Jaime was living the rest of his life, atoning for his family’s sins. He was always doing one thing or another for charity - organizing food drives and toy drives and volunteering at soup kitchens and homeless shelters. He had given his name to several homeless people and any time they were picked up by the police, they knew they could call Jaime Lannister and Jaime would bail them out while paying for a hotel room for them for the night (he knew that he could offer to help them stay off the streets for good, but he had learned that most living on the streets preferred it that way). He and his wife, Brienne, also organized a massive charity run every year that brought in thousands of dollars, always distributed to several shelters and other organizations in aiding people of getting back on their feet.

 

And on top of all of that, Jaime also oversaw photographer Jon Snow. Jon didn’t think he needed a manager or an agent – though Jaime told him, several times, that yes, he did – and what Jaime did for him seemed to be working out just fine. It was Jaime’s job to get Jon’s name out there and keep it out there so galleries and museums would be interested in Jon Snow and his photographs.

 

Jon had won a photography contest for a newspaper when he was seventeen – his first picture and it was of a group of kids playing in a burned out car in his neighborhood. When he had won, he got his picture in the newspaper as well as a brief story of his life – up to that point. Jaime Lannister had read the article of the young man who had discovered a love for photography while living in one of Lannister Buildings and Jaime had taken it upon himself to contact Jon Snow and his mother, Lyanna, and offer his services.

 

 Whenever a reporter asked Jon about Jaime Lannister – and there was always one reporter still asking about it – Jon’s response was always the same. “Jaime’s a good man.”

 

Jaime looked at Jon for a moment and then pulled himself out of his chair to come sit down next to Jon on the sofa. “Everything alright?” Jaime asked him now.

 

“Sure,” Jon’s head nod was immediate.

 

Jaime saw right through it. “Is it a girl?” He then asked. “It always is.”

 

Jon smirked, looking to him. “Always?”

 

“Always,” Jaime confirmed.

 

Jon was quiet again, but Jaime waited, knowing that eventually, Jon would tell him; and Jon couldn’t believe the way things worked out sometimes; that he now had Jaime Lannister in his life who actually knew him and knew him pretty well. If that could happen, maybe seeing that girl again wasn’t _that_ far-fetched.

 

“I didn’t ask her for her name,” Jon finally said, almost muttering it as if he was embarrassed; and he supposed, in a way, that’s exactly what he was. Because despite the fame and money he now had for himself, he very much could still be that young guy who had no idea how to talk to a pretty girl.

 

“Ah,” Jaime said with a nod as if he understood perfectly though Jon doubted that he did. Jaime was a good-looking guy who seemed to always ooze with just a little too much confidence. “Well, you never know, Snow. Things you can’t get your mind off of have a way of popping up again when you least expect them.”

 

Jon looked at him for a moment and then shook his head slightly. “Eating fortune cookies for lunch again?”

 

Jaime paused and then gave him a grin. “Too obvious?” He joked and this time, Jon was able to smile.

 

…

 

Despite her son’s insistence that he wanted to take care of her as much as she had taken care of him, Lyanna Snow was a stubborn woman; that and she actually really loved her jobs. She worked at a hair salon Monday through Friday and then on the weekends, she gave children riding lessons at the horse stables. She allowed – and she made sure Jon didn’t forget that she gave him permission to do it – him to buy her a nice house in a slightly upscale neighborhood and also allowed him to sometimes help with the bills, but Lyanna couldn’t imagine living a life in which she didn’t work. She loved cutting hair and she loved riding horses and she didn’t see a reason to quit doing either thing just because her son was his own success.

 

Jon walked into the salon for his four o’clock appointment with his mom and came to her station where she was reading that day’s newspaper, waiting for him.

 

“I’m not late, am I?” Jon asked as she pulled herself out of the chair.

 

“No. I finished my last appointment early.” Lyanna leaned in and kissed her only child on his cheek. Her hands then went to his hair. She could tell he had been wearing it back for most of the day and had just taken it down. “Please tell me today is the day of the buzz cut.”

 

Jon rolled his eyes even as his lips twitched in a smile. “Stop. Just a trim.”

 

“No fun,” Lyanna pretended to pout and then guided him to the row of shampoo bowls.

 

Once back in his mom’s chair, with the nylon cape draped over his front, Lyanna began combing through his long black curls and Jon couldn’t help, but close his eyes. He had nearly fallen asleep at the shampoo bowl as he almost always did and now, when his mom combed and cut, it was another thing that nearly put him to sleep. He didn’t care how old he was now or how old he got. His mom cutting his hair was a surefire way to get him completely relaxed.

 

Around him, there was the usual chatter of a women’s salon – some woman talking about her husband while another complained about their kids while yet another bragged about her grandkids. That was also soothing to Jon in a way. With his eyes closed, a mixture of voices and hair dryers and the phone ringing, it was all soothing white noise; white noise he had grown up around.

 

When Jon opened his eyes again, Lyanna had begun to snip, holding up locks in her fingers, keeping the length straight as she cut. He looked in the mirror and Lyanna caught his eye in the reflection and they shared a smile before she went back to work. Jon’s eyes drifted over his mom’s station. It was all impeccably clean; she cleaning it thoroughly after every appointment. Their old apartment had been that way, too, and he could still hear Lyanna’s voice saying what she always said.

 

_“We may be poor, Jon, but that’s no reason as to why we, or our home, should be dirty.”_

 

Despite the conditions of their home, Lyanna had done her best to take great pride in the tidiness of it. Jon always thought his mom had a gift for making the shabbiest of furniture to look like it came from the highest end of all furniture stores.  

 

When they had been able to move out of the Lannister Building, one of the few tenants to manage to succeed such a feat, their house had been small, but it had been theirs and once again, Lyanna and Jon had kept it neat and tidy, Jon seeing to things outside while Lyanna saw to the inside. Jon’s own flat now was kept spotless, the habits from his mother being instilled into him forever.

 

Besides the tidiness, Lyanna also had several photos of Jon, she never denying the fact that she loved to show off her son; her pride and joy. She had the newspaper article of when Jon won the photo contest framed and hanging on the wall next to the mirror and she had another photo of him and her, taken at an awards ceremony where he had won the best photo prize for one of his pictures of the nomad tribes in his first collection. The third photo was of the two of them standing in front of their rented U-Haul truck on the day they moved out of their apartment.

 

Lyanna snipped and Jon looked over the photos he looked at every time he came to get his hair cut. And then, to no surprise, he found his mind drifting back to the beautiful redhead from the museum that morning. Her hair had been down – long down her back – and had been a beautiful dark red copper shade. She had smelled like a strawberry – faint and not overpowering, but obvious to him all of the same – and Jon wondered if that had been a perfume she wore or if her hair had been the thing to smell like a strawberry.

 

He wondered where she got her hair cut.

 

Jon suppressed a sigh. He didn’t want his mom to hear it and then proceed to give him the third degree. His eyes drifted to the newspaper in front of him that his mom had been reading when he came in and she had folded it on the page she had been reading and would pick up again once she had another free moment.

 

“Jon!” Lyanna admonished when Jon suddenly shot forward, forgetting about the scissors at his hair.

 

Jon snatched the newspaper up and stared down at the article of an inside page accompanied with a photograph. It was of a group of girls – young ones probably around nine or ten – holding a large trophy and grinning for the camera. Jon hardly looked at anything else though except for the woman in the picture with them, standing with her arms around two of the girl’s shoulders, her smile matching theirs.

 

It was her.

 

His eyes finally read the headline to the article. _“LOCAL DANCE TEAM ON THEIR WAY TO NATIONALS”_

 

Jon then looked back to the picture. Beneath the frame, the names and ages of the girls were listed, but his eyes only cared about one of the names. And there it was. Sansa Stark, lead choreographer and coach to the Jump and Jive Dance Studio Competition Team.

 

Sansa Stark.

 

He knew her name now. Sansa Stark. Of all of the newspapers and of all of the pages his mom could have been reading when he came in, it was this one; the one with Sansa Stark.

 

“You know her?” Lyanna asked curiously, looking over his shoulder to see what he was looking at and had risked getting stabbed in the head to read.

 

Jon shook his head, his eyes never leaving the black and white photo. It was a bit grainy, but he didn’t doubt for even one second that this was the woman from the museum this morning.

 

“Not yet,” Jon answered.

 

_“Well, you never know, Snow. Things you can’t get your mind off of have a way of popping up again when you least expect them.”_

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much for your response to the first chapter and for reading this chapter!


	3. The Invitation

…

 

**Three.**

“One! Two! Three! Four!” Sansa called out as she watched the girls in the mirrored wall. “Lizzie, straighten your arms! One! Two! Three! Four! Step back! Kick! Lunge! One! Two!... Stop!”

 

Sansa went to the stereo and stopped the music.

 

“Remember, girls,” she turned to the five girls on the competitive dance team. “The four turns must be together. If you’re all turning and then Meg finishes her turns first and then the other four finish, _everyone_ watching is going to know that you girls aren’t together.”

 

The five girls, catching their breathes, looked up at to her and nodded their heads.

 

Sansa smiled. “Alright. Let’s do this combination…” she glanced to the clock on the wall before back to the team. “Twice more and then I’ll let you go for the night. Alright?”

 

The five girls nodded their heads again and as they took their positions, Sansa returned to the stereo, getting the music back to the place where it needs to be. Once it’s ready, Sansa went to stand behind the girls so she could watch them as she began to count out loud again, watching them carefully in the mirror.

 

She knew she could shout and scream at them. The Westeros National Dance Finals were obviously a very big deal and it was a very big deal that this competition team had won their way to earn a spot in those finals. But Sansa knew her girls and she knew that they were nervous enough. Sansa screaming that their turns weren’t in unison wouldn’t do anything except stress them out further.

 

“Lizzie! If I have to tell you about your arms one more time, we’re going to make you wear casts for the next practice so you keep them straight!”

 

Well, sometimes, Sansa knew she had to be a _little_ harsh.

 

When it was time for practice to end and the girls emptied out of the studio with calls of “Good night, Ms. Sansa!” and “See you tomorrow, Ms. Sansa!” and Sansa wished the girls and their mothers a good night, too, Sansa exhaled a deep breath as if she had been holding it for the past two-hour practice.

 

She couldn’t admit it to the girls or their mothers and she barely even wanted to admit it to herself, but she was nervous for the Finals, too. How could she not be? She’d been teaching the competition team for only three years now. She was aware of how young she was when it comes to other competitive dance teachers and it was just as important to her to prove herself as it was to her girls.

 

Starting the song over again, Sansa watched herself in the mirrors as she danced through the Finals’ number and though she had danced it too many times to count now, she still wanted to put her own body through each and every step so she could change anything that might look or feel too awkward. She wouldn’t expect her girls to do things that she, herself, could not do.

 

The door to the practice room opened and her best friend, and another dance instructor at the Jump-and-Jive Dance Studio, Jeyne Poole, stepped into the room, smiling and holding a stack of mail in her hands.

 

When someone asked Sansa, and someone always seemed to ask, about any special relationship in her life, Sansa always replied that she was in a relationship with her best friend, Jeyne, and sometimes, that felt like it was the truth – considering how long they’d been in one another’s lives.

 

Best friends since they were two, beginning to take dance lessons together at the Jump-and-Jive Dance Studio, owned by Jeyne’s mother, Sara Poole, when they turned four; dancing on the competition team together and once graduating from high school, they went to the same college to study and perform dance. Coming back home to Winterfell and both teaching at this dance studio seemed like the natural step for them. Both, of course, had higher aspirations when they had been in school; both auditioning and wanting spots for the Westeros Ballet Company and though Sansa, herself, got far along in the auditions, in the end, neither had been cast. Disappointed, yes, but both absolutely loved teaching at this studio because it gave them the chance to dance every single day while getting paid to do so and that’d been their dream all along.

 

Sara hadn’t talked about it, but almost everyone knew that she was getting ready to pass the reigns onto someone else – namely her oldest of five daughters, Jeyne – and Jeyne had already said that if – _when_ – her mother did that, Jeyne wanted Sansa to become her partner in the business.

 

Jeyne stood at the door, waiting and watching until Sansa did the final turn and struck the final pose.

 

“That looks so good,” Jeyne complimented her with a smile.

 

Sansa shook her head and went to the stereo to turn the music off before standing in front of the mirror again. She did the final turn and final pose with one arm stretched to the ceiling. “I feel like this ending needs to be changed, but I’m not sure how to change it.”

 

Jeyne shrugged, now hugging the mail to her chest. “It looks good to me, but I’m not a perfectionist like you.”

 

That got a grin out of Sansa. “Who was it who kept the beginning tap class of _five_ -year-olds nearly twenty minutes late the other day because they couldn’t get their heel taps in unison?”

 

Jeyne shrugged again. “The parents aren’t paying me to _not_ teach properly.”

 

Sansa let out a laugh and then did another quick turn. “Want to go get some late dinner?” She asked.

 

“I can’t,” Jeyne said and sighed heavily. “I have a last-minute tap private.”

 

“Cassie?” Sansa guessed.

 

“No. I think you mean the next Judy Garland according to Cassie’s mother.” Jeyne took a deep breath, calming herself before she could get too worked up over pushy mothers and over-ambitious kids – two pitfalls of being a dance teacher – and gave Sansa a smile. “Mail for you,” she then said, stepping forward and holding out an envelope towards Sansa.

 

“For me?” Sansa couldn’t help, but be surprised.

 

The only mail she got here was her paycheck or a random piece of junk mail because she sometimes put her work address down when an address was needed for something or other instead of her home address.

 

The envelope was mint green and Sansa could tell immediately that whatever was inside was printed on thicker paper. She opened it carefully, her finger sliding beneath the flap. She noted that there wasn’t a return address anywhere. Jeyne unabashedly stepped to Sansa’s side so she could see what it is as well.

 

“Secret admirer?” Jeyne wondered.

 

Sansa shook her head. “I have no idea.”

 

She didn’t know why though, but Jeyne’s question began making her stomach flutter. Sansa knew it wasn’t a secret admirer. She had always been in love with love and romantic gestures from books and movies, but after a couple of disappointing relationships, Sansa had grown and learned that romance like that didn’t actually happen in real life.

 

If her life was a song, this would absolutely be a secret admirer, but her life was real and this was _not_ a secret admirer no matter how much she would very much like that idea.

 

As she first suspected, it was an invitation printed on think cream-colored paper. The words were in black script, slightly raised from the paper. This was official and professionally done.

 

 _An Evening with Photographer Jon Snow_ – the top line stated and already, Sansa felt her breath catch in her throat as soon as she read the man’s name.

 

She had done her best to not think about the man; her absolute best. And for the most part, Sansa thought she had succeeded at that. She’d been so busy at the dance studio, teaching and rehearsing with her dance team, during the day, she barely had a moment to think of anything except dance; certainly not a man she met for a brief moment the week before.

 

Whenever the man _did_ slip into her mind – usually when she was home for the night – Sansa did not mince words with herself, calling herself everything from idiotic to pathetic. It wasn’t like she thought that for even one moment, Jon Snow was sitting around, thinking about her, too, so why waste time, thinking about him?

 

Was it possible to have a crush on someone she only met for a moment so many moments ago? She knew it was even when she asked herself the question and tried to convince herself otherwise. Of course it was possible. She had had a crush on her older brother’s best friend, Theon Greyjoy, for all of two seconds when Robb first brought him around; and then he had opened his mouth and talked and that crush had quickly died.

 

So yes, Sansa knew that crushes could form in an instant and talking to Jon hadn’t squashed it. For as little as they had actually spoke, Sansa had been able to find out a bit about him. Not to mention that he was a very handsome man. _Very_ handsome. And it was completely harmless to have a crush on the man because it was like having a crush on any other celebrity-type person. It was harmless because it wasn’t like she would ever see him again. She just wished she _didn’t_ have a crush on this one celebrity-type person.

 

It may have been a week now, but Sansa still could feel the slightest sting of lingering disappointment and embarrassment from him having no interest in going to the café with her. She was an adult. She knew that not every single male she was attracted to would be attracted to her in return, but that didn’t make the sting go away; the sting not interested in being logical.

 

_Dear, Sansa, please join us for an intimate night with Jon Snow and some of his most well-known and well-praised photographs as well as the opportunity to speak with the photographer one-on-one._

_The Evening of Thursday the 30 th at Lannister Art Gallery in Winterfell_

_Drinks, wine, and appetizers will be served. (Please no jeans, tennis shoes or tee-shirts)._

Sansa’s eyes scanned the date and time. The 30th was tomorrow. Her dance team’s practice went from five to seven. She would be a little bit late; wanting to obviously shower and change before going.

 

An opportunity to speak with the photographer one-on-one… yes, showering would be necessary.

 

If she would even _get_ the opportunity to speak with him and if she did, did she _want_ to speak with him?

 

Sansa turned the invitation to the backside, but nothing was written. This was obviously a personal invitation and yet, Sansa had absolutely no idea who had sent it to her. And not only had it been sent to her, but it had been sent to her _here_. Who would send her an invitation to an evening with a photographer, who she had just met but didn’t tell anyone about meeting, and would know to send it to her here at the dance studio?

 

Sansa frowned as she looks to the envelope, but it was just her name and this address.

 

“That’s nice,” Jeyne said, taking the invitation from Sansa to look it over herself as Sansa continued studying the envelope as if expecting a return address to magically appear before her eyes. “Are you going to go?”

 

Sansa paused before nodding. “I think so… I wonder what photos will be in the gallery.”

 

“I don’t know how you can look at those things,” Jeyne said and going to the mirrors, she set the remaining pile of mail on the floor before taking a few steps back.

 

Sansa took a step back as Jeyne begins a series of turns. “What’s wrong with them?” She wondered.

 

Jeyne finished the turns and slipped into tap. Tap had never been Sansa’s strong suit, but she watched Jeyne for a minute, quickly catching onto the steps, and even in her silent jazz footwear, she began tapping along with her, both girls smiling at one another in the mirror.

 

“They’re just so… serious,” Jeyne answered.

 

“I like them,” Sansa smiled a little, laughing as Jeyne grabbed her leg and held it up straight against her chest, able to rest her forehead against the shin. “We’re getting too old for that,” Sansa told her and Jeyne laughed as Sansa then did the same with her own leg. Years of acrobatic routines and constant stretching had made their bodies, as dancers, a bit more flexible than most.

 

“Never say that again, Sansa,” Jeyne said as they began tapping again. “And I know you like them, but all of those photographs… not just Jon Snow’s, though I really only know his because of you, but I feel like if you take black-and-white pictures, you have to find someone who isn’t smiling and you have to make sure that non-smiling person is doing something to show their plight in life.”

 

Sansa recalled her words she spoke to Jon in the museum’s gallery. “I think they’re beautiful.”

 

She remembered Jon Snow sitting on that bench, wearing all black, and talking with her and the way she had felt; just from those few minutes speaking with him – the way her stomach had clenched and the way her cheeks warmed when he gave her the small smiles.

 

All in all, meeting him and talking with him before being turned down and she leaving, it had only taken a handful of minutes. If Sansa went tomorrow night, will Jon even really remember her? Being famous and being a photographer, the man probably knew dozens and dozens of people and she hadn’t even told him her name. What if she went and saw him only to watch as he had to take a minute to remember her?

 

“You’re frowning,” Jeyne noted, looking at her reflection in the mirror.

 

“I’m thinking,” Sansa corrected her with a shake of her head.

 

Both stopped at the same time and slightly out of breath, they headed to the door, Jeyne collecting the mail again and Sansa looking down to her invitation once more.

 

“Thinking about what you’re going to wear?” Jeyne guessed.

 

Despite being as close as sisters – and Sansa loved Arya and now that they were adults, they were much closer now than they ever were when they were girls, but Jeyne had always been another sister – Sansa didn’t tell Jeyne about her incident in the museum. Jeyne would completely blow it out of proportion and that was exactly what Sansa is trying _not_ to do. Sansa kept telling herself that it wasn’t some higher power at work. It was just a chance meeting with a man. Chance meetings happen between two people every single day and her meeting Jon Snow wasn’t any different or special in any way.

 

So why, if Sansa truly believed that, was she now thinking that instead of getting dinner for herself, she was thinking of what shop she wanted to go to so she could find a new dress for tomorrow night?

 

Maybe it would be best if she didn’t go, Sansa thought. She was dangerously toeing the line of being completely pathetic. Still, she had to wonder though, who even knew her to send her an invitation.

 

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much! I really fell in love with writing Sansa and Jeyne's friendship in _All My Days_ so I wanted to write it again.


	4. Note

Son of a butt.

I had such a clear vision in my head for this story when I began writing it, but now, it's not coming out the way I wanted - at all - and I'm having such a hard time getting past the block that is now in my way. 

Thank you so, so much to those who have read what I have so far, but for the time being, I'm going to be putting this one on hiatus. I'm also going to be taking a few days "off" to think of a new idea I'll actually be able to get out of my mind with clarity. Thank you again!


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